Ocean Star
by Novasglow
Summary: Sherlock had his laptop propped open on the dashboard, which John was vaguely sure was illegal. "If we crash and I die I will haunt you for eternity" he hissed, just as Sherlock performed an almightily intricate turning whilst reading about genetics on wikipedia.


**Ocean Star**

Waking up early to travel in a car for three hours was one of John's specialities. His childhood was full of it- family holidays, family visits and, worst of all, family reunions.

Thankfully this time there was no family involved, and his heart was light at the idea of not having to fight with his cousins when they called him a nancy.

He had Sherlock to fight with instead.

The kettle was boiled and the sun was rising, complete with his flatmate wide awake and typing on his laptop ferociously. "Morning Sherlock!" John greeted, walking out of the kitchen with toast and tea. He received a vague hand gesture in reply.

Standing behind the man he placed his mug of tea on the table and received yet another acknowledging gesture. That was sleep deprived Holmes speak for "Thank you."

The clouds outside were thick and unforgiving, and John was mildly thankful that they were going to the coast for a case and not a holiday. He might even be able to sneak a trip to the pub in during their day. As usual, he was left to carry the luggage and, as usual, he had no idea where the hell Sherlock hired their cars from.

His brother, probably. They always had the air of a tank around them, and John wouldn't be surprised if you pressed a button and it turned into the batmobile.

He slammed the boot closed, and shouted up the stairs for Sherlock to get a move on.

"You're bringing your laptop?"

"Yes."

"To a beach?"

"Yes."

"You'll ruin it with scratches."

"I'll be careful."

"No you won't."

Forever the backseat driver, John barked out instructions and directions at spontaneous intervals. Neither of them had really left London in a long while, and Sherlock was vaguely annoyed at not memorizing the route.

The seats of the car were smooth and slippy, and their three bags were dumped on the back seat. Sherlock had his laptop propped open on the dashboard, which John vaguely felt was illegal.

He kept taking his hands off the wheel at traffic lights to type, and John was becoming ever more paranoid.

"If we crash and I die I will haunt you for eternity" he hissed as Sherlock performed an almightily intricate turning while reading about genetics on wikipedia.

"I'll look forward to it." He replied absentmindedly, and John smiled out of the window.

England wasn't exactly famed for it's lovely beaches. In fact, you were lucky if you found one with actual sand instead of tiny pebbles and collapsing cliffs, which was where they had ended up.

It was charming in it's own quiet way, John considered, and they parked up their car and made their way down to the center of the sand. The clouds looked a little kinder now, but it was still dull and the sea air rushed at them in large breaths.

Seagulls cawed above them, and together they unpacked and set up a tent. John prepared himself for a long day.

They had dressed accordingly; John in jeans and a jumper and Sherlock in his usual "I'm rich and mysterious and you're not" get up. The tent was to be their little den for the day as Sherlock figured out what they were going to do, and John cursed himself for not bringing a book or something to keep himself entertained for a good few hours.

They were after someone. Accused of murder, it was a fairly open and shut case. To be honest, John didn't really know why Sherlock had accepted it.

Lestrade had sounded pretty surprised over the phone too, as though he was only telling them the case out of career obligation.

Sherlock crawled into the tent first and immediately began to type again, and John entered soon after with a pillow or two and a blanket. He threw a pillow at Sherlock, who glared at him sharply and received a small chuckle. The tent was large with a high roof, overall pretty good quality. John left as quickly as he had entered. Time to kill time.

He had made his way down to the beach edge, a few inches away from the water. The wind whipped at his jumper and his short hair, and he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

The contrast between here and Afghanistan was extraordinary. The taste of sand clogged your throat there- in fact it clogged everything. The barrel of your gun, the van exhaust pipes, the syringe needles. There was no water for miles and no sound for hours, and the desert was a dead land.

The British coast was a haven of life. There were noises and movement and water, and no people. There were no guns, and no civilians begging for mercy. That aching urgency in your chest was a vague memory.

John trailed the edge of the beach for a while, looking for flat stones. He was out there for an hour or two, making his way up the beach and stone skipping. His record was eleven skips on one wave, and he was determined to beat it.

It wasn't long before the evening fell, and John marveled at how fast time flew. He had gone into the tent earlier for something to eat, and had practically force fed Sherlock a sandwich.

"What are you doing?"

"Reading up on cardiovascular muscle movements and dementia causes."

"Ah."

John had left again and sat down out on the sand. However, the sea was beginning to darken with the sky, so he came back in after thirty minutes.

Sherlock closed his laptop and stretched, coat sleeves revealing thin wrists and long fingers. John had watched in fascination at the cat like movements.

"Enjoying your day?" The man asked suddenly, and John had to quickly stop staring. Sherlock was getting restless, meaning it was time to practice his light conversation skills.

John smiled slightly. "Yeah. It's been good. Peaceful."

"Why did you come back in?"

"It's getting dark."

"You don't like the dark?"

"Do you?"

"I tolerate it."

"I despise it."

"Oh."

Every once in a while, Sherlock had days where John left him speechless. Sometimes over nothing. Sometimes from wit. Sometimes from complete frankness. These were one of those days.

John smiled again and stretched himself, arms high above his head like he was doing yoga. He yawned silently, and lay back. Sherlock froze and shushed him, even though he wasn't making any noise.

In seconds, he was unzipping the tent and looking outside, feet firm on the sand. John should have sighed and rolled his eyes, but his blood suddenly pumped with adrenaline and he followed the detective.

The next hour was spent sprinting across sand on unsteady feet after a figure in the distance. John as usual was behind Sherlock, and couldn't help but admire his grace and wonder how the fuck he looked so effortless.

John had ran on sand in Afghanistan of course. He'd sprinted to the middle of a war zone with a medical belt strapped to his waist and his bulletproof vest folded on a sleeping bag back in headquarters.

Sherlock looked out of place. Dark coat flying behind him and smart shoes kicking up sand, it was as though he was blending in with the dull colour scheme. The sun was starting to set.

Most of the run along the side of the sea was spent staring at this tall, lithe creature in a suit and long coat speeding across sand. John was torn between cursing the stupid ground and staring in admiration after the mans figure.

They made their way up the steps to the wooden planks of the pier and ran half the distance, before stopping. They were basically standing above water.

"She's gone."

"She?"

"Lifeguard. Accused of having affair with lover. Lesbian, born youngest out of four siblings. Not entirely sure why I've been notified about her by police, she's the wrong woman."

John was breathing hard, hands on his knees. There was sand in his shoes and a few grains stuck to Sherlocks coat.

"Why the bloody hell did we chase her then?"

Sherlock shrugged, straightening his shoulders and staring out into the ocean.

"You looked bored."

John stood up properly and stared at him in disbelief. "I looked...bored? So we- Sherlock I was fine-"

"Oh be quiet and look" The man interrupted, stepping towards the edge of the pier and nodding out towards the horizon. The water below was dark and bubbling, cold. Not too deep, mind, but still, John had always been unnerved by the ocean.

Not because of the creatures within, but because how empty it was. Lonely.

He followed Sherlock's line of vision, startling a bit at the surge of colour. John rotated to fully face the sunset, he and the taller man standing side by side.

Afghanistan was a beautiful place, don't get him wrong. Once the blood and the gunfire had been scraped away with a shovel and loaded onto the back of a medic van, it was a truly quiet, graceful country. Through the pain in his shoulder and his slowly slipping consciousness, he had stared at the sky, wincing. The sun had been setting. Before blackness took over and he fell into a fitfull sleep on the bloodstained stretcher, he felt a surge of hate.

Afghanistan was a beautiful place, and it was being torn to pieces.

Fucking war.

Under different circumstances, maybe John would have appreciated his surroundings in that foreign land even more than he did. However, either from the mood in the air between him and Sherlock or the tiredness sinking into his bones, every other coast in the century of coasts could suck Britain's dick.

The sky was a vibrant orange and the clouds were pink and whispy. Looking down, John swallowed gently. The sea was too dark. He was lightheaded.

Sherlock seemed to have had enough of admiring nature and, once again confirming in his head that yes, this all occurred by evolution and no, there was no god in sight, he turned to John- just in time to see the man buckle at the knees and collapse forward into the water.

Oh god. No time to panic, Sherlock jumped in after him, coat flying. Struggling under the black water he grasped John's hand, tugging him as best as he could as he tried to swim.

Mycroft had always been vaguely envious of his swimming abilities, the fat arse.

"John. Swim. John." The man was chanting as John opened his eyes. Quickly realizing what had happened, he forced his limbs into motion.

The loudest noises were their gasps mixing in with the roar of the tide and the steady chanting in Sherlock's velvety, steady voice. They swum steadily towards the empty beach. When their feet found footing, they catapulted themselves forward, finally finding themselves coughing on the sand. John collapsed on all fours, turning himself onto his back with a thud once he was sure he'd emptied the water from his lungs. The setting sun had half disappeared now and it was dark. He shivered and looked over to Sherlock.

The man was sat up perfectly straight and staring at him. His hair was clinging to his forehead, and his chest was rising slowly in deep breaths.

"Oh god. Um. Sorry about that, I-" John began, remembering with a jolt that he probably should apologize, social decorum and all. However, social decorum had never properly affected Sherlock, who simply nodded and stood tall, stretching out a hand.

John took it, and together they made their way back to the tent, shoes squeaking and sand clinging.

John crawled in first as Sherlock held up the flap door. Again, John lay back, the fact that he'd nearly just died not entirely sinking in yet.

Sherlock took off his wet coat and draped it over one of the tent poles, shaking his hair back from his face and leaning for his laptop. His types came in short bursts opposed to his usual constant patter, and the air was thick with tension. They sat like that in silence for a few minutes, before John felt the need to say something.

"Thanks."

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement to John's speech. He kept typing. John continued.

"Um, seriously though, if you weren't there I would have died. Sorry for interrupting 'the moment' or whatever." he smiled weakly, before jumping when Sherlock snapped his laptop shut.

"I hope you saved that..." John began, referring to the typing work. Sherlock didn't reply, and simply stared at him. John stared back.

It was now completely dark outside, and through the flap was an everlasting stretch of nothing. Unwilling to admit he was scared, John reached out and zipped the entrance shut, slightly unnerved. He was uncomfortable- they both were, with their clothes sticking to their bodies and seawater on their skin. Sherlock, say something.

But he didn't. John sighed, and turned away, focusing on finding a towel in their luggage bags.

"You nearly died" came the purring voice, though not as sensual as usual. It was cold, flat, and accusing.

"Yes. Yes I did." John turned back and replied. "No big deal"

It looked like something inside Sherlock had snapped. His jaw tightened, and his eyes were dark. He was ridged, and his face was blank. It was quiet at first, his voice.

"No...big deal?" he began, near silently, He shuffled forward to rest on his knees and leaned towards John. "You think your near eminent death wasn't a big deal?" He was calm. John was confused.

He frowned slightly, lifting the towel to dry his hair. "Yeah, I mean, it's nothing new. Happens everyday since I moved in with you."

Wrong thing to say. Sherlock looked like he had winced slightly. He sat back down properly again, silent.

John tried. "Sherlock. What's up?"

Okay well that got a rise out of him.

"What's up?" The taller man suddenly snapped. "Really? Has your tiny fucking brain really decided to fail you today of all days?"

The towel stilled in John's grasp in annoyance. "Hey, don't yell. Just-"

"You nearly died, John!" Sherlock barked. He slouched back and crossed his arms across his chest, looking disappointed at himself for his outburst.

John, as ever, was confused.

"And? It's not like I'm anything special."

"Don't."

"But-"

"Don't."

They sat in silence again, and John felt like an idiot. They were both shivering. John laid back and tried to close his eyes, wondering when Sherlock wanted to go home. The fact that they were on a beach in the middle of the night was something that danced around John's head like an annoying song.

His stomach twisted, and he actually felt the urge to cry.

This was stupid. John's psychiatrist had so much as said so in quiet, carefully chosen words. She had reasoned that John, a man who was so warm and focused on comfort, was scared of being alone.

It had been like that since he was a child, actually. When Harriet ran away from home to stay with a girl she met on holiday. The house was empty with her absence, and John had no one to play with. He hid in his room and wondered if anyone would miss him when he was all grown up.

In Afghanistan, at least he had his mates with him. It was more like a social gathering than a war. A social gathering with casualties and dead men, but nonetheless a party. They had ridden across deserts in trucks of six, laughing and messing with their guns. They were young, then. He was young.

John opened his eyes at a gentle nudge. Sherlock was holding out a piece of cloth towards him. Soft and red, John accepted the blanket as a peace offering, before frowning at Sherlock's thin shirt.

"Is this the only blanket we brought?" he asked. Sherlock nodded, trying to stop the shivering. John smiled slightly, before laying out the blanket and leaving one side free. He nodded at the blank space.

Sherlock frowned. "John, I couldn't possibly-"

John simply patted the space again. "Warm up, Sherlock. Then we can go home."

Sherlock seemed a little tentative as he slid under the blanket with John, and they lay back, not touching. Well this was awkward.

John sighed slightly.

"Sherlock, we're not going to warm up like this. We need body heat."

Sherlock turned on his side towards him. "What are you suggesting?" he murmured.

John blinked. Wow, okay. Um.

"Take off your shirt." he sat up, beginning on his own buttons. The other man looked a little startled.

"Excuse me?"

"Take it off. Wet cloth will stay wet if we keep them on. Don't worry, it's not like we're stripping completely" John weakly joked, shaking slightly as he stood up and hung his shirt next to Sherlock's coat. He turned back to meet the mans dark eyes staring at him.

Suddenly uncomfortable, he stretched out his arm for Sherlock's shirt, ushering him along. The man was working the buttons slowly with his long fingers, finally peeling the wet shirt off and revealing a pale, thin torso. John took the purple silk and draped it up, too, before sitting back down and sliding under the blanket.

Again, they lay in silence. After five minutes or so of listening to the tide and thanking the gods that the sea wouldn't come in till later that morning, the rustling of cloth came to his attention. A hand lay on his stomach, and a leg was wrapping around one of his own.

"Sherlock?" The other man looked up at him lazily.

"Hmm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Body heat" Sherlock stated simply, and pulled the blanket over them properly. John tried to ignore the sudden burst of butterflies in his bloodstream and turned towards Sherlock, deciding he may as well do the same.

He draped his leg over the other man's thigh and wrapped his arms around him in a shirtless hug. Oh god they were shirtless. The closeness that John suddenly supplied was probably a little unneeded, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't help much when Sherlock was concerned.

They stayed like that in silence, warming up under the blanket. Sherlock's head had found a place on John's shoulder, and the other man couldn't protest. It felt nice, this contact. Unfortunately, his libido and sexual identity crisis thought it was 'nice' too, and his body was preparing itself to show it.

John prided himself on having a strong will, so he tried his best to calm himself. He though himself successful at first. But no.

He tried to move his hips away from the other man to not make him uncomfortable- high functioning sociopaths don't usually appreciate having a dick stabbing into their stomach- but to no avail.

Sherlock shifted, and John knew that he had felt it. However, instead of moving away in disgust, he...moved closer?

It happened so fast he nearly couldn't react. Sherlock flipped him onto his back and straddled him, still locked in an embrace. "Sherlock, what-"

His voice cut off in a strangled gasp as the other man started moving his hips harshly. His hands wrapped possessively around Sherlock's waist, willing him to go faster yet trying to speak at the same time.

"What are you- Sherlock- why- stop- oh- why are you- fuck." he threaded one hand into his hair suddenly and pulled his head away from his shoulder sharply.

Sherlock's lips were red, and he noted with some vague surprise that Sherlock had gently been necking on his collar bone.

His eyes were dark, but he blinked a few times in apology. His voice was rough.

"John! Oh. I'm sorry." he moved to get off and lay back down. However, John had felt what was between Sherlock's legs and wasn't about to let him leave so easily. He gripped his waist again, staring up at him. Sherlock was avoiding eye contact.

Slowly, John started grating his hips upwards, and all it took was a few thrusts before Sherlock was back to sucking on his shoulder and thrusting against him desperately.

"John" he had gasped "Is this- is this okay?"

He sounded uncomfortable, as though he wasn't used to caring for another person.

"Sex now. Talk later." John had uttered back between grunts, gnashing his teeth at air slightly as Sherlock created even more friction.

This was what it had led up to. A year of quiet admiration, of a fist over his mouth to keep the name he shouted in masturbation quiet, of forcing his eyes away from the thin waist and the beautiful face of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And John was overjoyed.

Roughly, he ran his hands up and down the man's spine, noting with a little mental shake that the man needs to eat more. However, the whole running around London part of the job description kept him firm and healthy, so he couldn't really complain. He shoved his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers, appreciating the smooth feel of the suit material.

Sherlock's dress sense was something to be admired. Threatened with a knighthood? Swap it for a Dolce & Gabanna ￡8,000 outfit. He wore the clothes of celebrities and royals without paying a penny.

Sherlock sighed happily into John's neck, a change from the few small noises he was distributing earlier. He moved his head to position directly over John's, all dark eyes and a smirk.

When John's hands found themselves cupping his flatmate's arse, Sherlock moved in for the kill. They fought for dominance in their kiss for a good minute or so, before John decided he'd like it if they hurry up and get naked please and let Sherlock take over.

The fact that Sherlock was apparently a virgin was astounding. However, he supposed you could learn anything if you read the right book, so John wouldn't be surprised if the man had the entirety of Karma Sutra memorized.

His hands moved away from the soft flesh and towards the front of his dress pants, fiddling with the belt buckle and the buttons. The material was still damp anyway, so John could claim that the removal of his clothes was entirely for medical reasons.

In seconds, Sherlock had done the same to John and they lay there humming slightly as the only thing between them was two thin layers of cotton.

In the faint glow of the tent light John could make out every line on Sherlock's body. The direction of the light made his cheekbones more pronounced, and shadows flitted across his delicate form. John felt a faint pang of envy.

He knew he wasn't exactly a stunner. He was the guy who only got girls if he talked to them and made them laugh, not by eyeing them up across a bar and getting noticed. However, he felt he looked okay. Average, but okay. John was trying to get his head round how he he off all people had managed to find himself frotting against one snobby, wonderful, genius, beautiful Sherlock Holmes.

This man was the type who pulled girls like Irene Adler, not boys like John Watson.

Whilst he had been on this self depreciating line of thought, Sherlock had been working on kissing his way from his ear to the waistline of his boxers.

He pulled John's cock free and roughly wrapped his lips around the throbbing flesh.

The sea roared in their ears.

"Fucking hell." John uttered between gritted teeth, trying desperately to get his breathing in control. He willed himself not to glance down at what Sherlock was doing. But he did anyway.

The colour scheme of this man had a contrast theme. White skin, black hair, red lips. He looked-well, he basically looked like a whore. This thought made John wince, moaning Sherlock's name into the air like a broken man.

Sherlock was slow, trying to find out what John's body reacted to. Once he'd discovered a technique, he sped it up, nearly giving John a heart attack.

He looked up through his eyelashes at John's face, and kept eye contact as he worked his way up and down.

'Fucking porn star you fucking dick' was all John could kind of think at the moment, and Sherlock suddenly stopped.

John took a deep breath, rolling his hips up to find him again. Sherlock was staring at him with a strange expression. A thread of spit was hanging from the head of his cock to Sherlock's lips, and his mouth was red raw and shiny. He looked absolutely disheveled.

The man made his way back up John's body, laying chest to chest. Sherlock blinked a few times, as though trying to remember something.

"John." he rasped. "John."

"Sherlock?"

"You nearly died."

John sighed. "Don't mention-"

"You're not allowed to."

John frowned, but the butterflies were released back in his stomach.

"You're not allowed to die, John."

"Okay, Sherlock."

They held eye contact, and said no more.

Tiredness was hanging upon them like a weight, and they felt like they could sleep for days. Leaning down, Sherlock quickly brought John to his climax in tight, rough strokes. His name was screamed in a hoarse voice, and Sherlock buried his face back into his neck.

They fell asleep.

The tide was gentle when John awoke again, and the sun wasn't even up yet. They must have slept for less than five hours.

He shifted underneath Sherlock who quietly rolled aside and sat up.

John passed him a towel, and they got cleaned up and dressed in silence.

"So-" John began, shoving an arm through his shirt. "Sleep well?"

"Why did you faint last night?" Sherlock asked, shaking out his coat. John noted the hitch in his voice as he remembered the incident.

"I don't like the sea."

"So you decided to faint into it?"

"Yes."

"You don't faint because you don't like something, John."

"I did."

Sherlock turned, and John knew that he had summed everything up in a heartbeat.

He said no more on the subject.

Then, they collapsed the tent and drove back to London in the early hours of the morning, half an hour before the tide came in.

-end-

**I wrote this at 5am when I should have been doing art coursework. Ignore the stupid mistakes and ooc-ness. This was fun!**


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